hold on
by glowing neon
Summary: as much as this pains you, you'd rather win wearing somebody else's skin than die in your own. in two weeks, either you'll come out as a hero or a victor. (you can't be both.) / glimmer, candles and drowning. for estoma in the c/p valentine's day fic exchange.


**For:** Estoma, as part of the C/P Fic Exchange.

**Warnings:** Bit of language, OOC Glimmer.

**Beta'd by: **The FABULOUS MissingMommy, who's always willing to lend me a hand. Good quality for a wife.

/

_And following tradition, ladies first._

The Capitol's representative's smile is blinding as she fishes about in the giant bowl of names for a victim. Grinning, she pulls one out, taking her time to announce this year's victim.

_Cali Ametson._

A girl, in a pink lace dress and pigtails, trembles as she walks up to the escort looks at her and then the rest of the crowd, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

You're frozen to the spot. You don't want to go through with this; fuck honour and glory, this whole thing is wrong and you know it. But you know what they do to those selected who back out at the last minute. You'd be destined to a half-life; you'd be ridiculed and shunned for being a coward. Better to go through with your instructions and feel a hint of guilt than be looked down upon and to have your family isolated for generations to come.

_No volunteers this year? What a surprise from District One._

You ignore the stares of everyone else around you, and keep your eyes fixed ahead, determined not to look at the girl you're supposed to be volunteering for.

It's only when the girl looks damn near to collapse that you finally stick your hand in the air.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

/

You shoot one more grin at the clapping audience, before gracefully heading backstage. The smirk stays on your face as you pass all the other tributes on your way out of the building. Each one looks at you differently. Your fellow District One tribute shoots you a wink as you pass, while the girl behind him offers you a sweet (but fake) smile. Most of the others try to avoid drawing attention to themselves as you brush past them.

But not one can look away.

You exude confidence; your sheer silk dress makes you look angelic, although every single person in the crowd knows you'd kill in a heartbeat.

You know you're meant to wait for Marvel, but the fabric itches at your skin and you need to take it off. Pushing open the fire escape doors out of the building, you ignore the voice of your mentor and leave toward the tributes' mansion. You walk along the concrete-paved streets alone, and you wonder - can't they see this isn't you? That this is all a show?

You can't decide whether you hate the ignorant citizens or the ruthless Gamemakersmore. But despite your hatred of everything the Games is and represents, you're not going to lose, no; as much as this pains you, you'd rather win wearing somebody else's skin than die in your own.

In two weeks, either you'll come out as a hero or a victor.

(You can't be both.)

Oh, but honey, you're falling. You don't know how much longer you can hold onto this façade for. Every fake smile to the crowd, every moment you have to glare at the other children (_no, tributes_, you hastily correct yourself) in the Training Centre, it's all adding up.

Somewhere in you, there's a glimmer of hope that you'll be okay. But before long, the light flickers and the wick drowns in the wax.

That's a better word for it, isn't it? Drowning. You can feel it all piling up on you, weighting you down. You're struggling to keep your head out of the water, and you know it'll only be a matter of time before everyone finds out what a fake you are.

You just hope you've become their victor first, so you can pass off your 'changed' personality as what the arena has done to you.

/

You're lying on the ground and a rock is digging into your back, but you can't bring yourself to move your lead-filled limbs. You're in the stage between your hallucinations phasing out and death, and it seems as though you've got forever to think about what's coming.

And all you think about is that you never got to redeem yourself, did you, darling? No. You had a chance to be yourself before your end came, but now there is nothing you can do. You didn't get to die a hero _or _a victor; instead, you're just a blurred face in the sky over the arena and another senseless death from District One.

You want to vomit, but you can't bring anything up. Your eyelids are dropping, and you can't seem to keep them open. Everything takes so much effort. You're trying to breathe, but you can't move anything. You've come full circle, haven't you, darling? You're drowning, alone, watched by thousands on their television screens.

You thank your lucky stars that it's about to be over.


End file.
